Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [44]
Joan stared at the bishop in shock. What did he mean? Could Odo be the master of the schola? The one who would teach her?
What had she done?
Odo looked down his narrow nose at the bishop. “You have, of course, made arrangements for the child’s accommodation? She cannot board in the boys’ quarters.”
“Ah … accommodations.” The bishop hesitated. “Let us see …”
“My lord.” The red-haired knight interrupted. “The child could stay with me. My wife and I have two daughters, who would make her welcome. She would be a good companion for my Gisla.”
Joan looked at him. He was a man in the prime of life, some twenty-five years of age, strong, well favored, with high cheekbones and a fine, full beard. His thick hair, really an extraordinary color of red, was parted in the middle and curled thickly to his shoulders. His startling blue eyes were intelligent and kind.
“Excellent, Gerold.” The bishop thumped him warmly on the back. “It is all settled. The girl will stay with you.”
A servant came by with a tray heaped with sweetmeats. John’s eyes widened at the sight of the honeyed treats, oozing with butter.
The bishop smiled. “Children, you must be hungry after your long trip. Come sit by me.” He moved closer to the woman beside him, clearing a space between him and the red-haired knight.
Joan and John went around the table and sat. The bishop himself served them sweetmeats. John ate greedily, taking huge bites of the gooey treats, the sticky syrup mustaching his mouth.
The bishop returned his attention to the woman seated beside him. They drank from the same cup, laughing, and he stroked her hair, disarranging her coif. Joan fixed her eyes on the plate of sweetmeats. She nibbled at one of them but could not finish it; the honeyed sweetness was sickening. She yearned to be away from this place, away from the noise, the unfamiliar people, and the puzzling behavior of the bishop.
The red-haired knight named Gerold spoke to her. “You have had a long day. Would you like to leave?”
Joan nodded. Seeing them rise, John stuffed in one last mouthful of candy and got up.
“No, son.” Gerold placed a hand on John’s shoulder. “You stay here.”
John said plaintively, “I want to go with her.”
“Your place is here, with the other boys. When the meal is finished, the steward will show you to your quarters.”
John paled, but he mastered himself and said nothing.
“That is an interesting piece.” Gerold pointed to the bone-handled knife strapped to John’s waist. “May I see it?”
John pulled it from his belt and handed it to Gerold. He turned it over, admiring the working on the handle. The blade glinted, reflecting the flickering torches around the room. Joan remembered how it had glowed in the candlelight of the grubenhaus, before it bit into the parchment of Aesculapius’s book, erasing, destroying.
“Very fine. Roger has a sword whose handle has similar working. Roger.” Gerold called to a youth at a table nearby. “Come show this young man your sword.”
Roger held out a long iron sword with an elaborate handle.
John regarded it reverently. “May I touch it?”
“You can hold it if you like.”
“You’ll be given a sword of your own,” Gerold said. “And a bow. A lance too, if you’ve the strength for it. Tell him, Roger.”
“Yes. We have lessons every day in fighting and weaponry.”
John’s eyes registered surprise and delight.
“See the little nick here on the side of the blade? That’s where I struck a blow against the heavy sword of the master of weapons himself!”
“Really?” John was fascinated.
Gerold said to Joan, “Shall we go? I think your brother will not mind our leaving now.”
At the doorway, Joan turned to look back at John. With the sword across his lap, he was talking animatedly to Roger. She felt an odd reluctance to part from him. They had often been more rivals than friends, but John was her link to home, to a world familiar and comprehensible. Without him, she was alone.
Gerold had gone ahead and